Omissions

by Karen Hodgson Price

In this photo
my eyes dissemble
the lived moment.
Our words die on my lids.
Reveals little but

a prickly always,
a barbed and. No smell
of wood-smoked wool
or poached-pear bake
on tongue. No votive touch.

It does not say I looked
everywhere but your face
that day. Everywhere. It omits
utterly to mention
last chances.